


Miranda's

by ATouchOfHeavenlyLight



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Bingo Card One, F/F, Jealousy, Mirandy Year of Fun & Frolics, The Met Gala, Writers Bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 16:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15344187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATouchOfHeavenlyLight/pseuds/ATouchOfHeavenlyLight
Summary: Miranda arrives to the Met Gala 2007 with Andrea Sachs on her arm. While she has great appreciation for the dress she selected for Andrea to wear this evening, she has zero appreciation for how well-received her Andrea’s experience is by the men in attendance.





	Miranda's

**Author's Note:**

> For bingo card 1: jealousy  
> I had to google so many things for this fic and then got lost in google. It worked out in the end lol.

The Met Gala was truly an exhausting event that taxed Miranda every year, every year a piece of her soul actually fractured away and left her body when she had to look upon the heightened levels of fashion debauchery that often accompanied the event. This year, in particular was disheartening. The theme was “King of Fashion” in honor of Paul Poiret the founder of haute couture, one of the great giants the fashion industry stood on the shoulders of, the man who changed women’s fashion forever when he freed them from the unnecessary restriction of a corset. Most women at this event were wearing the absolutely most boring dresses, none of them seemed to realize this was to be a celebration of the feminine form.

And the men, they all wore the obligatory bare minimum: tuxes and suits. Groundbreaking.

As Editor in Chief of fashion’s leading magazine, Miranda was always invited to the Met Gala. Most years she showed up alone, save the one when she, in some fit of lunacy apparently, dragged Stephen along with her. That had been the exact opposite of a pleasant evening. 

This year, however, she showed up with Andrea Sachs, up-and-coming reporter for The Mirror, the two of them fully embracing the Poiret ideal of liberating the feminine form.

Andrea, awestruck, accepted the gown Miranda picked for her. She was glowing in her deep, forest green gown—a floor length number with a small train pooling behind her—the neckline exposed the bare skin between her breasts, tapering off just above her navel, hair pinned and curled at the top of her head, in a style that was popular in 1930’s France.

Miranda had her dress selected months in advance. Prada. A she’d worked with their creative director to design a dress that would pay homage to the work of Poiret. A gold, floor length gown with a bateau neckline, its back left open to reveal a V of flesh from her shoulders to the small of her back, where Andrea rested her hand as they made their entrance to the event, warm and welcome.

What was unwelcome, was their inevitable separation. Once inside the Gala, Miranda had to hold court, so to speak—like any Queen, she had those seeking audience with her, especially at an event such as this. There was practically a queue formed. 

Andrea had been swept away almost immediately. Miranda had told her she’d be a while talking, advised her to get a drink and relax, and enjoy the evening.

However there was a queue of a different sort, full of  _ men _ , forming around Andrea where she stood sipping a glass of wine, chatting politely with some all-too-friendly fellow who stood leering at the things Miranda loved most about the dress she’d selected for her lover. Jealousy started to burn in Miranda’s veins—Andrea was here, dressed as she was, lovely as she was, for  _ her.  _ Not these men. How dare they seek to have what isn’t there’s. Miranda was to be the only one looking at Andrea the way these men dared to look upon her—perhaps she’d miscalculated, she should have kept Andrea at her side the entire evening, or better yet, stayed home.

But then Andrea looked away from the man seeking her attentions, and looked over to Miranda, giving her a smile and a wave, and from the distance Miranda could not hear, but observed what looked like “I’m with Miranda.”

And so she was. Suddenly jealousy was very easy to get over when the thought occurred to Miranda that Andrea truly was hers. These men could gawk and stare and imagine Andrea’s body all they like, but it was Miranda who would be taking her home at the evening, caressing her every clothed curve before peeling the dress away herself, and getting to bask actually, truly in Andrea’s body all on her own.

Andrea was hers, and hers alone. 


End file.
